Though Ythirama's hastily conjured psychic shield barely blocked Lorgar's punch, imbued with a Primarch's might and golden psychic energy, its devastating force had already penetrated his body.
The Aeldari Farseer's deputy staggered backward for more than ten meters before barely steadying himself on one knee.
Thick, deep-red Aeldari blood covered his face, dripping uncontrollably from his chin.
More blood trickled from his nostrils and even the corners of his eyes, spreading glaring stains across his sumptuous silver-blue robes.
Lorgar did not immediately pursue him. He stood like a mountain, coldly surveying his opponent's wretched state.
Even he felt a faint flicker of surprise.
He knew better than anyone how destructive his psychic energy was. An ordinary psychic warrior would have been shattered by that blow, their psychic energy dispersed.
Yet this Aeldari had endured it without dying, and even remained conscious and ready to fight.
It gave him a more tangible understanding of this ancient race's physiology and psychic resilience.
"Cough... humanity's... fledgling god..." Ythirama's voice emerged through his ruined face, accompanied by the gurgle of blood flowing back into his windpipe, yet still carrying a twisted, almost fanatical obsession.
"You... don't naively believe... this is... all I have, do you?"
His words came in broken fragments, but as he stared unwaveringly into Lorgar's eyes, what burned in his pupils was not a dying man's despair, but an almost sacrificial madness and resolve.
Lorgar answered with silence—and action.
He had no interest in a dying xenos's ravings. He slowly raised his Mace, golden psychic energy gathering around its head once more with a low, dangerous hum.
The time had come to finish this. He had to deal with the trouble here as quickly as possible and rescue Angron.
Yet just as Lorgar was about to deliver the killing blow, Ythirama's